The heavy latch fell into place with a thud, sealing off Valencia and Parker from the outside. As their eyes adjusted to the torch light inside the shack they could hear the occasional murmuring voices of passersby outside in the market as the shoppers and vendors retired for the night. Valencia felt Parker shiver as the brutish shopkeeper brushed past them. Valencia kept calm, recognizing this as a classic negotiation tactic intended to make the women feel defensive and intimidated. Or at least she hoped.
The man disappeared into the back and returned with two guitar cases, one of which he swung onto the counter. Valencia nodded and, with a theatrical crack of his knuckles he undid the rusty closures and opened the case. He folded his arms across his beefy chest and smirked. "You asked for rifles. Here are two very fine specimens."
Wordlessly Valencia removed one from the case. Even in the low light she could see the rust pitting along where the barrel met the forestock and immediately set it aside. She reached in for the second and began inspecting it, fingering a small dent near the muzzle. Imperfect, but not a deal breaker for the right price. She ran her hand down the barrel and stopped when she felt a slight bulge in the metal. She set it back in the case.
"These are wonderful bludgeoning weapons," she said evenly, "but I asked to see rifles. Do you have any?"
The merchant stared at her for two full seconds before clearing the counter and bringing up the second case. "The lady knows her firearms," he said under his breath.
Valencia concealed her satisfaction as she began her next round of examinations. Neither weapon was of the quality of the rifle the Waltzer's had confiscated, but she could hit a target or two with ease with either of these weapons, though one felt more natural tucked in the hollow of her shoulder. They appeared clean and cared for but without the telltale stains on the stock indicating over-oiling. No flex or rattle with the stock. She dry fired the weapon and approved of the trigger pull weight--just right.
Yet she sighed and pursed her lips. The owner's brow furrowed. "It's a good weapon," she said slowly. "But I have some concerns. I see some early signs of erosion here on the lands in front of the chamber, and there's about an inch or so more frosting than I'd like to see on the bore. Still, I'd rather not wait until morning to shop around and I can tell you'd probably like to walk home with a few more tokens in your pocket so I'm sure we can agree on a fair price. Let's put this to one side and talk about handguns. Budget models are fine, but only show me ones that shoot straight. I'd don't want to have to throw it to defend myself. I've thrown enough crap for one day," she muttered and Parker laughed. Valencia allowed herself a small smile too.
The merchant exhaled deeply and shook his head as he reached beneath the counter for the tray of handguns.
The women emerged from the shop and into the lamp-lit evening to find the others there, waiting like puppies. Were they looking at her as a leader? Valencia felt her face flush in sudden embarrassment at the pregnant silence, crushed beneath the weight of their eyes. "There's a bar I know on the river," she mumbled at last. "I'm going for a drink. First one's on me if you're interested."
She swallowed hard and didn't look back as they fell in line behind her. After a few steps it was all she could do not to break into a run.
She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, savoring the whiskey's burning path down her throat. The drink sanded off the splintered edges of her anxiety and she realized that she was suddenly content, back in some semblance of her comfort zone. She paid for the drinks and wordlessly went to work on hers, nestling into the comfortable silence and leaving the others to mingle with the raucous pirates who had commandeered the bar.
An evening spent bartering followed by sharing a drink with companions she might call friends. It was almost like the incident in the afternoon--her arrest, imprisonment, and escape--were the events of a tall tale she'd heard rather than ones she'd lived. But the drunk sailors nearby were damning the newfound aggression of the Crowleys, the Waltzers, or whatever the hell they were called, but they deserved a good throat slashing, all of them. Historically Valencia let bygones be bygones, but in this case she tipped her hat to that sentiment and finished her drink. With that kind of talk she figured it wouldn't be safe to stay in the city. When she went to the bar to get another drink--was it her third now?--she asked a sailor about trading work for passage to Green Bay on a Sullivan ship. The drunk snorted and said she'd have to pay like any other passenger, plus a hefty contraband tax if she was trying to skip town without a lot of fuss, if she knew what he meant. She did.
Valencia sat at the table sipping her drinks and watching the bar slowly thin out as the pirates broke off in groups to go look for trouble in night. She was surprised to see that none of her cellmates had slipped away during the evening but remained, chatting up each other and commiserating with a few of the remaining pirates. When the barkeep shouted for last call Valencia became uneasy as they returned to sit at the table with her. She felt her anxiety rising through her half-drunk stupor.
She was just going to say not to look her for answers when Jack stumbled over and dropped into a vacant seat, his eyes shining and his expression ecstatic. For a moment Valencia understood why ladies with a thing for bad boys might fancy him. "I've got it all figured out," he said jerking his head at the bar, where an attractive woman stood pretending not look over. "She's tight with the captain and said she can get us all on board, free of charge! Am I good or what?"
The others clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him before rising from their seats to retire for the night. But Valencia sat there alone, now feeling the full effects of whiskey on empty stomach, and asked the empty chairs, "Wait. What's that you mean by 'us'?"
The man disappeared into the back and returned with two guitar cases, one of which he swung onto the counter. Valencia nodded and, with a theatrical crack of his knuckles he undid the rusty closures and opened the case. He folded his arms across his beefy chest and smirked. "You asked for rifles. Here are two very fine specimens."
Wordlessly Valencia removed one from the case. Even in the low light she could see the rust pitting along where the barrel met the forestock and immediately set it aside. She reached in for the second and began inspecting it, fingering a small dent near the muzzle. Imperfect, but not a deal breaker for the right price. She ran her hand down the barrel and stopped when she felt a slight bulge in the metal. She set it back in the case.
"These are wonderful bludgeoning weapons," she said evenly, "but I asked to see rifles. Do you have any?"
The merchant stared at her for two full seconds before clearing the counter and bringing up the second case. "The lady knows her firearms," he said under his breath.
Valencia concealed her satisfaction as she began her next round of examinations. Neither weapon was of the quality of the rifle the Waltzer's had confiscated, but she could hit a target or two with ease with either of these weapons, though one felt more natural tucked in the hollow of her shoulder. They appeared clean and cared for but without the telltale stains on the stock indicating over-oiling. No flex or rattle with the stock. She dry fired the weapon and approved of the trigger pull weight--just right.
Yet she sighed and pursed her lips. The owner's brow furrowed. "It's a good weapon," she said slowly. "But I have some concerns. I see some early signs of erosion here on the lands in front of the chamber, and there's about an inch or so more frosting than I'd like to see on the bore. Still, I'd rather not wait until morning to shop around and I can tell you'd probably like to walk home with a few more tokens in your pocket so I'm sure we can agree on a fair price. Let's put this to one side and talk about handguns. Budget models are fine, but only show me ones that shoot straight. I'd don't want to have to throw it to defend myself. I've thrown enough crap for one day," she muttered and Parker laughed. Valencia allowed herself a small smile too.
The merchant exhaled deeply and shook his head as he reached beneath the counter for the tray of handguns.
The women emerged from the shop and into the lamp-lit evening to find the others there, waiting like puppies. Were they looking at her as a leader? Valencia felt her face flush in sudden embarrassment at the pregnant silence, crushed beneath the weight of their eyes. "There's a bar I know on the river," she mumbled at last. "I'm going for a drink. First one's on me if you're interested."
She swallowed hard and didn't look back as they fell in line behind her. After a few steps it was all she could do not to break into a run.
She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, savoring the whiskey's burning path down her throat. The drink sanded off the splintered edges of her anxiety and she realized that she was suddenly content, back in some semblance of her comfort zone. She paid for the drinks and wordlessly went to work on hers, nestling into the comfortable silence and leaving the others to mingle with the raucous pirates who had commandeered the bar.
An evening spent bartering followed by sharing a drink with companions she might call friends. It was almost like the incident in the afternoon--her arrest, imprisonment, and escape--were the events of a tall tale she'd heard rather than ones she'd lived. But the drunk sailors nearby were damning the newfound aggression of the Crowleys, the Waltzers, or whatever the hell they were called, but they deserved a good throat slashing, all of them. Historically Valencia let bygones be bygones, but in this case she tipped her hat to that sentiment and finished her drink. With that kind of talk she figured it wouldn't be safe to stay in the city. When she went to the bar to get another drink--was it her third now?--she asked a sailor about trading work for passage to Green Bay on a Sullivan ship. The drunk snorted and said she'd have to pay like any other passenger, plus a hefty contraband tax if she was trying to skip town without a lot of fuss, if she knew what he meant. She did.
Valencia sat at the table sipping her drinks and watching the bar slowly thin out as the pirates broke off in groups to go look for trouble in night. She was surprised to see that none of her cellmates had slipped away during the evening but remained, chatting up each other and commiserating with a few of the remaining pirates. When the barkeep shouted for last call Valencia became uneasy as they returned to sit at the table with her. She felt her anxiety rising through her half-drunk stupor.
She was just going to say not to look her for answers when Jack stumbled over and dropped into a vacant seat, his eyes shining and his expression ecstatic. For a moment Valencia understood why ladies with a thing for bad boys might fancy him. "I've got it all figured out," he said jerking his head at the bar, where an attractive woman stood pretending not look over. "She's tight with the captain and said she can get us all on board, free of charge! Am I good or what?"
The others clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him before rising from their seats to retire for the night. But Valencia sat there alone, now feeling the full effects of whiskey on empty stomach, and asked the empty chairs, "Wait. What's that you mean by 'us'?"